International Idiot
by InvaderPey
Summary: "I can remember the day that England stopped being a person and became a shell. Closed, bleached, and empty: resembling the somberness of the sea." France tells the tale of America and England's relationship throughout the decades since the Revolution. Post-WWII. T for violence and self harm. USUK, France, Canada.


PART 1

"I was the last to consent to the separation; but the separation having been made and having become inevitable, I have always said, as I say now, that I would be the first to meet the friendship of the United States as an independent power..." -King George III of Great Britain

* * *

I can remember the day that England stopped being a person and became a shell. Closed, bleached, and empty: resembling the somberness of the sea.

Of course, I had aided in this downfall, although I did not expect things to end so badly. Alfred was a stubborn child and England was my enemy. He took away my beloved Mathieu; all I wanted was to teach him a lesson and to kick him down from his throne as king of the world. And, well, it worked.

Arthur crashed hard to the ground. I watched from the sidelines that day as the force of Alfred's hatred beat his former father figure into the blood-infused dirt. They hardly even touched and the empire was out for the count. Certainly, this was unexpected. Even Alfred looked shocked for a split second before steeling his countenance once more. Molten words spit from the former-colony's lips, landing upon the heart of the man beneath him and corroding it like acid.

Sure I had seen Arthur cry before, but it must have been at least a thousand years. Yet, there he kneeled, exposing his shame to the world. It was his tattered body collapsing face-first into the mud as the blue-clad army marched away that allowed me to realize that, maybe, I had been wrong.

* * *

Being the closest thing Arthur had ever had to a friend, I tried to visit him in 1783, after King George III had formally acknowledged the freedom of the American Colonies. As expected, I was rejected. However, it was who locked me out of the poor Brit's house that shocked me most: my dear, little Canada.

"Why hello, Mathieu, what a ple-"

"How could you come here?!" the enraged colony shouted, as quietly as possible, "Leave at once. Arthur will not be seeing anyone!"

I was shocked and hurt as my own former colony turned me away. What had I done?

"What is the meaning of this, Mathieu?"

The pale-blonde growled, "For one, I can not believe you have the audacity to be roaming around in enemy territory. Also, now that Alfred has been 'unchained' my borders and my people are more at risk that they have ever been before. Arthur is a bleeding mess and he will hardly help me. I can hardly help him..." the Canadian trailed off, tears of anger beading at the corners of his eyes now rolled down his cheeks as tears of utter sadness. "It's all too much. I've never seen anyone, especially not Arthur, in a state such as this..." the colony sniffed. He was so frightened by the state of his empire and the increasing American threat, that he nearly broke down. "F-Francis, I-I just d-d-on't know what to-to do!"

I wrapped the poor boy in a warm embrace and patted his hair soothingly. Damn that Arthur, distressing his poor boy this way. "_Chut_, my dear Mathieu. It will be alright, but I am going to give that damn Englishman a piece of my mind for bothering you so!" I demanded, pushing past the pleading Canadian and trudging up the stairs to the room I had known to be Arthur's.

I slammed open the weak wooden door; my footsteps came to a halt as I took in the state of the room. Everything which I had remembered to be so neat and tidy was scattered and torn. Splatters of blood appeared randomly across the walls, furniture, and floors.

"_Mon Dieu_..." I whispered as I stepped inside the room, almost afraid that some strange beast would leap from the darkness and mix my blood with the one already scattered about the room. But there was no beast: just Arthur, curled up in a bloody heap atop the ruined bed at the centre of the room. I heard Canada rush behind me and sigh.

"What happened?" I wondered aloud. Perhaps the Englishman was under attack? That would not do, I had not been informed.

"Arthur has been harming himself every day since he has come home," the smaller man behind him replied coldly.

"What do you mean? Come home from where?"

"You know where," Canada said, flashing vitriolic violet eyes coldly towards his former mother land. "And I haven't been able to return home for three years," he said offhandedly, as if his plight was unimportant. "Who knows what he would have done had I not come here with him after _that_. I just wish I knew how to stop it."

An understanding slowly came upon me as I listened to the boys words and watched him slowly enter the darkened room and begin to pick up bloodied items from the floor.

Arthur had never had anyone until Alfred, and the one thing he loved had been torn away by his very own hands. Now Arthur was hollow. He had nothing left to live for.

England wanted to die, but that's not the way things worked with nations.

A heavy sigh tore from my chest, half filled with guilt. "Please, go rest, Mathieu. I will take care of things here." Canada glanced at me questionably, but nodded and walked passed me towards the door.

"What will happen now, papa?" the worried colony whispered.

"You will go home, and I will take care of things here," I replied, silently praying to God that this could be fixed.

* * *

But, as it usually was the Britain and myself, peace could not be sustained for long. The French Revolution and the Napoleonic era had us and our allies face to face until 1815. Throughout all this time, a 'war of words' played out as two nations, one millennia old and one years new, sprayed their venom across the pond. In 1812, undealt tensions remaining from the War of Independence fueled a new spat. Thankfully, I preoccupied the Englishman's military strength, and the War of 1812 ended without too much damage to either party.

Wars came and went. Leaders came to power and fell. Countries were born and died. And each time England saw the American across the great Atlantic Ocean, I watched his carefully carved resolve crack bit by bleeding bit.

The U.S. Civil War was especially rough for both parties. I admit that I stood by, waiting for my delicious piece of Confederate America to be served. I stationed a leader in Mexico and waited. I'm sure that Yankee American was hurt the most. Torn in half and forced the fight himself and pin his beaten body back to the Union with bayonets. Arthur desperately wanted to help the Confederacy. It was like a dream come true, his cute Alfred was finally crawling back for help. But, he did not have faith in Southern success. The proof was in the fact that Europe was starving from lack of American wheat and cotton. 'King Cotton' would be dethroned and England would not put his dear Canada in danger with his rash behavior.

One war at a time, my boy; -wise words of the great Abraham Lincoln.

* * *

All of the nineteenth century seemed to be turbulent. So many ups and downs and new discoveries. I can't quite remember when was the last time I saw the mangled Brit. Our conflicts after 1815 were not on the scale of war. That is, until the turn of the century. Everything changed.

The Great War hit me like a speeding locomotive, a rather new development, and England was left to struggle alone against the haughty Germans. But, to him, it was just another war. Another way to get his mind to focus on something _else_.

England smartly decoded the Zimmerman Telegram and sent it the the U.S. representatives. Arthur was crumbling beneath the brute force of the Germans and he _used_ America to save his arse. The Briton did not like using and the American did not like being used. But, he brought the Allies to victory and what was done was done. I suppose that is when _those_ feelings started to plague our island nation once more. I, too, had witnessed the hatred bred into the eyes of the American when aimed at the Brit. I too would have died inside from the sting of the glare.

I met with Arthur a few times after the Great War. All of us had been thrown into a Great Depression, but England was depressed by more than just money. Mathieu, too, had been with me alongside the Brit as we futilely attempted to keep him from marring his flesh and making rash decisions. Canada became a Dominion during these depressive times; without a fight.

England and I watched from the shadows as America celebrated a decade of partying - and a great crash into a decade of dirt.

* * *

Many would say that the Second Great War is what saved the American's growing behind, Europe was not amused. Most of my land had been invaded. It hurt. It hurt so much but once it was gone, the throbbing secede. England, however, did not get the relief that was left by loss. Night by night he was pummeled with the iron fists of German bombs. The Royal Canadian Air Force fought bravely alongside the Royal Air Force to put down the vicious Luftwaffe. I'd have to say that the Second World War brought dear Mathieu many of his crowning achievements. It was truly what shaped him as a world nation.

As if the status of 'Great Nation' could only be shared by so many at a time, England continued to deteriorate. I could not understand how England's citizens could be so strong, chanting the words, "Keep Calm and Carry On," while the man himself was withering away. Giving up each time his chest burst open as another German bomb exploded above his beloved capital.

I liked to believe the America actually did want to help the Allied cause, and that he was just waiting for a personal reason to intervene, but when push came to shove and Japan attacked Pearl Harbor- well, I must have been truly insane to think that maybe Japan was on the right path.

Alfred stormed into the Allied Nations tent, raging about how the festering cut on his body was all England's fault and that he knew about the attack and could have warned him. Arthur did not give much of a response, unsurprisingly. He gave response to very little these days.

However, the boys entry into the war was gratefully appreciated by the rest of the Allies, and somehow deep inside Arthur, I'm sure, but this war was not to be a swift American heroic act, as in the last war. No. It took the Allies three more years to defeat the Third Reich, rather than the few months it took Alfred to repress the Central Powers in 1918.

Europe was saved, but England kept bleeding. He was forced to give up the rest of his empire. He was nothing now but a lonely island, attached to a cold older brother who didn't want his rule along with a frail grasp on the tip on Northern Ireland. And to add insult to the injury, he now had to see the face of the man who tore his life to shreds every month, as monthly or bi-monthly meetings between nations became customary alongside the creation of the United Nations.

Arthur returned to his harmful emotional release and there was nothing I could do.

* * *

Alfred became a boisterous part of our European affairs, and would spend most of his time happily chatting with Japan and Canada or having a death-glare contest with Russia. I whispered a prayer that I would not have to be involved.

England escaped to who-knows-where during the breaks to avoid contact with you-know-who after a rather troublesome interaction during the first 'World Meeting', as they had been termed.

On one particular day that Canada had gone with England to lunch and Japan and Russia were not in attendance, Alfred approached me, McDonalds cup in hand.

"Hey Francey-Pants, I wanna talk to you about somethin'," he said, almost seriously (as he was busy slurping Coca-Cola, and therefore could not be taken seriously).

I cringed internally at the harsh English and disgusting habit, "What is it, Amerique? Finally decided that you want to know all of my secrets to this perfectly toned body, hm?" I teased. America was getting chubby from so much indulging.

"Uh, actually no. I was wondering, well, how's England been doin' these days? He seems so busy all the time. I never get a chance to talk to him," Alfred replied, the faintest touch of a blush flashing over his cheeks.

I didn't know how to reply. The only other person who confronted me about England was Canada, who had been the first one to witness his sorry state.

"Er, well, I do not really know Alfred. Our _Anglais petite_ very much denies me of his friendship."

"C'mon man, don't give me that. The only people he ever talks to is you and Mattie," the American retorted, grating on his nerves.

"Why the sudden interest in the affairs of mon Arthur?" I inquired, genuinely curious.

However, it was when the boy flushed slightly and looked away, then stepped closer and asked me shyly, "Can you keep a secret?" that I began to regret my decisions to ever be curious. I slowly nodded in response, crossing my fingers that Alfred did not say what I thought he was going to say. I learned that day that crossing your fingers does not work.

"W-well. I-I've been real worried about him after all the WW2 stuff, a-and... I, uh, IthinkIlikeArthurandIwantedtoknowifyouthoughhemightlikemeback!"

It took me a moment to translate the jumbled up words, but when I had, I looked away with anger and sadness. As much as England was my enemy, he was my long time friend, even if he refuses to admit it, and I would not stand for the empty-headed American before me to go off and hurt him any more. I tried my best to steel my emotions and tell Alfred my thoughts with a level head. It was the hardest I had tried at something for a long time.

"I hate to rain on your parade, Amerique, but I have much doubt the mon Arthur will ever have affections for you. My apologies." I dared to gazed up at the young blondes face to gauge his expression after my piece had been said.

A flash of sadness crossed his countenance, but was quickly replaced by determination, "Well, I can't just take your word for it. I'll go find him and ask him myself."

"You will do no such thing," I growled and quickly moved in front of him. I can't let him hurt Arthur again. One more push would surely send him flying over the cliff.

"Woah, man. You wanna fight?" Alfred yelled. Irritated that I had moved into his path, halting his bold stride. Perhaps he thought that I wanted England for myself and that this would turn out to be some kind of dominance battle. He couldn't have been more wrong.

"I don't want to fight you _sot_. I'm protecting Angleterre."

"From what does he need protection?" The nuisance jumped to conclusions, "I can help!"

"I am protecting him from you!" I raged, about ready to scream out the truth of everything to the naive boy and pound the realization into his face with my fist-

I heard a gasp and a loud thumped and turned my attention away from the fool before me to see who had just witnessed our little joust, only to lay my eyes upon Canada crouched on the floor fretting over a pale, fainted Arthur, a slight trickle of blood pooling around his cracked skull.

"Angleterre!"

"Arthur!"

* * *

I awoke to the feeling of cold plastic and the sounds to clattering machines. Alfred and I had taken to the hospital's waiting room when we were denied access to the room Arthur had been placed in, as, somehow, Mathieu was the only one the doctor was convinced was related to Arthur, despite his resemblance to myself and his brother. Perhaps she just knew.

Mathieu came down and sat beside me in another plastic chair, heaving a tired sigh. "The doctor came in for a few tests and suggested I took a walk around while Arthur is still unconscious. She says you can come in once he wakes up, as long as he shows no signs of amnesia."

I nodded in understanding and was about to stand and suggest taking a walk around the building when a nurse walked up to Mathieu beside me.

"Are you Matthew Kirkland?" she asked.

"Yes that's me," he replied quietly.

"Well, the doctor has told me to inform you that your brother's head injury is fine. Nothing that a few stitches and pain killers won't fix, along with some antibiotics just as a precaution. However, there's something else..." she trailed off. The Canadian nodded to encourage her to continue.

"Well, it's. Um. It's about the cuts. They look an awful lot like some very serious self harm... I didn't know if..." the nurse trailed off again, obviously uncomfortable with the situation. This gave Mathieu time to sigh sadly and shake his head, flashing his gaze quickly over to the American who had stood, expression completely shocked.

"Y-yes... I am well aware of the self harm. Please let the doctor know that I have it taken care of..." he sighed and sat back onto the small plastic chair, putting his head in his hands as the nurse scuffled away. Canada rose from his chair and headed off in the direction of Arthur's room in the hospital without looking back. Alfred made a move to run after him, but I quickly grabbed his arm. He struggled against my grip before ceasing and turning to glare at me with fiery eyes.

"Tell me everything," he demanded. It was too late to hide anymore. England would have to fend for himself. I lead America outside.

* * *

Alfred learned the truth about Arthur that day. I told him everything I'd witnessed for the past 164 years. England was strong but Arthur was weak, and you must be very careful not to confuse the two. I even told him some of the nations past, for it seemed to explain some of the psychology of the hurt little nation. He wouldn't eat for days and he would hurt himself, sometimes to the point of death; his body becoming comatose until it had healed enough to once again sustain his life. It seemed that the most dreadful moments were the ones he spent after waking up from what he wished was a blissful death.

Alfred remained silent as I spoke. Head low, shoulders hunched, and eyes red. It looked as if the words I spoke were physically ailing him, and I almost smiled.

"Do you still hate Arthur?" I asked, having no idea for what the answer might be.

"Wh- no! Didn't I just tell you earlier that I liked him?!" Alfred screeched.

I was surprised at his angry outburst after being so quiet, but it allowed me to see the truth in his words.

"It is hard to tell what is truth in a world built upon lies and schemes, dear Amerique."

"I can't believe he would hurt himself so badly because of me..." Alfred whispered, looking at the ground.

I cleared my throat, since Arthur raised him, who knows what kind of suicidal tendencies Alfred is capable of?!

"As much as I am hypocritically not on your side in the matter, it's not really your fault that he is like this. Arthur had an awful past and has lived through the wrong eras with the wrong religion in the wrong part of the world. He is not mentally sane, to say the least..."

"But, if I had realized, things could have been different!" the boy pleaded.

"It was not ever meant to be different, Alfred."

I felt my cell phone buzz in my pocket and quickly retrieved it, hoping it was a note from Canada informing us that England was awake. While that was true, that was not the subject of the text.

"Merde!" I began to run towards the hospital as fast as I could.

"Fuck! What is it?!" Alfred shouted from behind me.

"Arthur is missing! He woke up and jumped out of the window!" I replied, entirely pissed off at the tiny nation, but now was not the time or place. Now, we had to hunt down England.

* * *

We reached the front of the hospital in time to see Mathieu dash out of the front door panting.

"I've searched the whole building, he's nowhere to be found!" The distressed Canadien cried.

"We will split up. We are in Washington DC., where do you expect he ran off to?" I added. Already skimming my head of the places he might have retreated to to hide.

"Perhaps he went back to our hotel? I will go check there! Call me if you find him," Mathieu declared, already running off in the direction of the nearest taxi-cab.

"Oui, I'm going to check the nearby pubs and bars, that seems like a very Englandish place to go. See you in a bit Amerique, hopefully with an Englishman by our sides," I announced, but before I could start my sprint in the direction of the nearest place of alcoholic sales, Alfred grabbed my shoulder and stopped me.

"Wait," he said somberly. I looked at the serious boy with surprised curiosity.

"I know where he is."

* * *

We arrived at our destination via Alfred's very fast personal automobile. It was small wooden house with small windows that looked rather worse-for-wear nestled within the solitude of many trees. I looked about the large area wondering why America possibly thought England would come to this raggedy home from the colonial times that looked as if it was about to crumble then and there. Just before I voiced my concerns and irritation at this waste of time, a different, more logical question came to mind, "Amerique, is this the house that you and Angleterre lived in?"

The young nation sighed heavily and slouched his back as he began to walk with heavy strides towards the cracked and faded door of the building, "Yeah. It is."

I, too, sighed at the memories, deep inside my mind I was impressed with the air-headed American's quick thinking in a stressful situation, but now was no time for being proud of an international idiot.

Alfred reached for the door and wrenched it open with his incredible strength; dust seemed to rise from the floor and darkness emanated from every direction. We stood still in the doorway as we waited for the dim light from outside to fill the dusk-permeated room. America broke the uncomfortable silence.

"So, do you think Arthur still thinks of me as a little brother?" he asked sadly.

I brushed some of my damp hair away from my face in thought, "I don't know how he thinks of you..." I replied, "I just know he does so a lot and tries not to at all..."

The glasses-clad nation walked into the room and toward a hallway, motioning for me to follow him.

"He's somewhere in here, I know it."

We searched the whole house front to back, checking every room, looking under every item, and calling out quietly, afraid that our loud voices would disturb the peace of the turbulent building and send its faulty hold crashing down over our unprotected heads. I felt a growing sense of hopelessness as we re-met at the back of the building, having found no trace of the missing Englishman. Just as I was about to suggest to Alfred that we should hurry up and look somewhere else, I heard an unusual creak from above. Alfred, too, looked up, but incredible fear quickly turned into light realization. He 'aha'ed and pulled on a draw-string that opened an almost unnoticeable door in the ceiling. An attic.

* * *

Soo... what do you guys think? Should I finish it? Comment, follow, fave, and comment please! I'll write part 2 if you do! (unless you tell me not to finish it...)


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